


Purple Hearts Beating in Time

by parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Sex, Other, Time War Angst (Doctor Who), because while the Doctor consents to the proceedings, brief descriptions of violence, the Master/Missy isn't seeking or concerned about consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea/pseuds/parsley_sage_rosemary_and_thyme4tea
Summary: The Doctor dances with Missy
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/Missy, Ninth Doctor/The Doctor's TARDIS/Missy, The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Kudos: 10





	Purple Hearts Beating in Time

Missy sat atop the grand piano, legs crossed, sighed and pouted dramatically for show as the Doctor told her that they were taking Bill to, well, never mind when, just, don’t make trouble while they’re gone. The Doctor left her once again to solitude, and she felt time bend around her, and, presently (the present, as any metric of time, is relative, much as to what degree it is a gift; for Time Lords, everything is more or less the present as they can perceive everything happening all at once, but only if they concentrate - usually the immensity of possibilities churning in the ether of their consciousnesses is too much to examine at any given moment) she felt the Doctor step off the TARDIS into another time zone, and fade out of the reach of her senses as the door shut.

The Doctor in her senses was an incessant buzz, ranging from a teasing tickle to an infuriating sting; but always there. Very reliable, the Doctor. All that buzzing, always, forever declaring their existence, their right to be, which Missy took as permission to do whatever she pleased, sometimes…but all the ways, oh all the ways that they had been, that they might yet be, all those fluttering, dizzying cycles - the Doctor’s TARDIS their hive, even sporting hexagonal borders in her internal dimensions - an ever changing facade, so cheeky - even if the intervals between were long, there would always be another laugh - laughter lived within the Doctor (that buzzing felt like laughter, sometimes) - oh, what sticky, sweet in its excess, delicious messes they made together! Missy far preferred the buzzing of the Doctor to the pounding rhythm of the drums that had been with her since childhood, and not just because the buzzing wasn’t intrusive or manipulative, as the drums had been, but mostly because it was connected to her dear Doctor.

She sighed. She was feeling nostalgic, a rather dangerous emotion for her, so she leaned into it, having always delighted in danger. She recalled with a smile when she and the Doctor were kids at the Academy, and she had said that they were like cats that could roll time as a ball of string - tangling, mangling, and the Doctor had laughed and protested, but there had been a glint in their eyes. She had chosen her metaphor well, knowing that the Doctor loved the animals on Earth that they had read about in the volumes about high impact planetary life. They had both been fascinated by the descriptions of humans, but after a while, Koschei began to feel jealous by all the attention the Doctor was paying the academic concept of humanity, and so pretended to prefer cyanobacteria as a species.

“You do no-!” Theta stopped abruptly at the grin on Koschei’s face and played along.

“Alright,” he said judiciously. “State your reasoning.”

“Well, while it’s certainly true that humans brought about just as impressive an extinction event on their planet as cyanobacteria, and managed to do so in an impressive fraction of the time, one has to appreciate the simplicity of design and efficiency of execution as exhibited by cyanobacteria! Producing a gas which, in its novelty, most life had not yet evolved mechanisms for processing, effectively killing off so many, _and_ gradually creating a new type of environment that a whole host of new organisms eventually became utterly reliant upon, to the point where they would die shortly after being deprived of it!”

Koschei rolled around on the floor laughing. Theta tried assuming a stern countenance but a giggle escaped him and he conceded, “There is a rather poetic irony to it, I will admit. A tragic irony! But poetic all the same.”

Koschei lay on his back and declared, imitating the pompous players they had seen in shows, “Ah, but you see, my dear fellow, tragedy and comedy are twins, differing only in perspective. People die and rejoice in both, after all; it is merely a matter of who is doing the dying, and who the rejoicing.” Koschei finished his speech, quite pleased with himself, and grinned up at Theta, who, predictably, was lost in contemplation.

“Do you think…well, couldn’t one postulate that there are degrees of tragedy? I mean, for us, when we die, it’s not death as other species experience it - it’s not permanent. Well, I mean, it is, for that regeneration, which does make it a kind of tragedy, I think…what do you suppose?”

Koschei detected the unspoken complicating factor of what happened after twelve regenerations behind Theta’s eyes - they had had many an argument about the morality of evading it. Theta’s omission was intentional; he wanted to retain the light-hearted spirit of this moment they’d been cultivating. Koschei appreciated him so much for that, and gladly assisted in his efforts to prolong it.

“I think,” he said, rolling over and propping himself up by his elbows to look Theta in the eyes, his hearts pounding with love as Theta assumed the same position in front of him so they both lay on the floor, and waves of protection and closeness and affection looped around both of them, a psychic embrace of two best friends, “We’ll keep living and dying, and no matter how many times we change, we’ll always be together.”

Theta smiled, soft and bright at that and nodded, eyes shining.

When they were still in their first bodies and had shared their secret fear with each other, that they were afraid to regenerate, afraid to change.

“What if I become someone else? What if I become someone I don’t like? What if one of us changes before the other and we don’t stay friends?”

“I’m scared too. But…tell you what. As long as we remain friends, it won’t matter how much we change. And we _will_ remain friends.”

The nights when they had curled up, in and around each other, static symphonies winding down into lulling hums, and as one began to withdraw back into the seclusion of their own mind, the other would implore them to linger. _Stay with me_.

One feeling the tearing pain of regeneration ripping through their every cell and the other shouting, panicked, “Wait for me!” - the first too busy changing to stop the other as they drove a knife through one heart, fell to their knees, pulled it out, and plunged it into the second.

Those had been the days when they'd still wanted the same things at the same time more often than not. When they fancied themselves supervisors, reveling in detached study, attaching only to each other. Theta gradually learning that one relationship was not enough to sustain them. They needed a family. Koschei feeling betrayed, resentful, lonely…

Missy forcibly shook herself from her reminiscing, back into awareness of her current body and surroundings. She pulled from her pocket the vortex manipulator she had assembled weeks prior, and secured it to her wrist. Though she and the Doctor had not discussed the matter of it being in her possession, she believed they were on the same page regarding this arrangement. She was free to pop out every now and again when the Doctor was off adventuring, because, after all, if the Doctor could skive off on their sworn duty to keep watch over her then she could very well skive off staying in a boring room with precious little to keep her occupied. As long as she returned before the Doctor knew she’d been away; no harm, no foul. That was the irritating bit of the bargain. But she was finding it easier to avoid the temptation of destruction in her current regeneration; while it’s true that old habits die hard, she’d managed to rid herself of quite a few with a simple knife to the back. Besides, deception and playacting had always been two of her favourite pastimes. That much hadn’t changed. So, she played the game of seeing how convincing her performance of an non-extraordinary, average, perfectly boring person could be to anyone she deemed interesting enough to approach. So far she hadn’t spoken to a single person.

“Infernal Doctor,” she thought fondly. “You’ve made my standards for association impossibly high.”

She didn’t mind, though. Even if they were dull beyond belief, the different sceneries and activities of people made for more stimulating surroundings than the vault. She set the coordinates to a pub in a time at the height of its popularity, which she hoped would provide an adequate distraction.

The coordinates in place, she pressed down and was transported to the pub’s entry way. Indicating her intention to enter, she was instructed to input her preferred gravity settings to a computer that connected to the establishment’s architecture. It was designed so people wouldn’t have to deal with the discomfort of their body adjusting to a different gravity level than their planet or ship or suit, or whatever place from which they might have come. She deliberated for a fraction of a second before selecting Earth - the Doctor kept the internal gravity settings of the TARDIS at Earth levels for the sake of the Earthlings they traveled with…and besides. The gravity differentials between Gallifrey and Earth were minimal, barely enough to be noticed. Presumably the engineers who had designed these features had taken into account the effect gravity has on time and sound and matter, and made adjustments to create the safest experience possible for their patrons, but Missy preferred to imagine that they were not as sophisticated as they wanted people to believe and didn’t have the finances to support such elaborate safety measures. She reveled in all the deceptions and gradual destruction brought about by the meaningless pursuit of profit. Oh, how very easy they all were to manipulate! Caring about such material, arbitrary matters.

A small piece of cloth was handed to her and she was told to fix it anywhere on her person; it would be incorporated within her system (of course that was the word they used, rather than body - machines so deeply incorporated into every day life - the more technology the better - how very fashionable, how very modern! and of course people were appeased, or deceived, or happy to suspend their disbelief and suspicion in favour of relinquishing all personal autonomy in their pursuit of convenience and comfort) for the duration of her stay and they hoped she enjoyed her experience! She accepted it with a simper and wrapped it around her vortex manipulator. She smirked as she felt the invasive data hoarder fizzle and dissolve, leaving plain cloth behind. The Doctor might have a sonic screwdriver, but she had some tricks up her own sleeve.

“Thank you for the _lovely_ bit of decoration,” she purred to the bouncer who’d given it to her, as she was let through the doors.

As she’d anticipated, the bar was appallingly loud, with a disorienting array of sounds, smells and sights. A perfect distraction. She sighed. Well, not quite. The perfect distraction would be the Doctor, a Doctor who still wanted to be friends, who was as lost and tormented as she, who could still understand her, or admit to understanding her, who craved her company as much as she craved theirs.

Missy sat down at the bar and tapped her fingers listlessly on the counter. She started absently reviewing the menu when suddenly, a distant, oh so familiar buzzing filled her senses, rapidly gaining strength as a figure approached and sat down at the bar a few stools away. The Doctor. Not their current incarnation, who was off somewhen with Bill - a different, unfamiliar face. Missy knew them to be the Doctor because all her senses, intimately familiar with their personal mental energy force, were alive with the static nectar, unbearably trusting, hopeful. Hope did not fill this Doctor. They appeared exhausted and their whole aura was tense, and Missy couldn’t discern why. Usually when the Doctor was under such duress they were running, or fighting, not sitting stock still at a bar, staring unseeingly ahead.

She examined them discreetly from her stool. Their hair looked freshly shaved and they were wearing a black leather jacket over a shirt of deep plum; a very broody dyke sort of aesthetic, which Missy thoroughly appreciated. Her current regeneration had been drawn to purple; in fact, the dress she was wearing featured multiple shades of the colour. They’re a matched set. Game, set, match. Ah, that it were so simple between the two of them. It never was, never could be; they’re too attracted to chaos, to interfering - the Doctor calling theirs help, Missy calling hers manipulation - either way, they’re making their mark, changing things, sometimes irrevocably. They never could play by the rules. They may have objected for different reasons - the Master, out of pride and a sense of entitlement, the Doctor, out of a deeply rooted sense of justice - but in the eyes of their leaders, they were just two renegades who needed to be tamped down.

The Doctor downed several shots in quick succession, and Missy was faintly alarmed, as well as intrigued, and she noted the loosening of their mental shields as the alcohol began to take effect.

When the Doctor drinks alcohol, the effects do not make themselves known by slurred words - their conversational ability is altered only in the sense that it increases. They say whatever is on their mind - the more they’ve consumed, the more their mental shields go down, to a point. After that point is passed, they close up again, usually because they’re either crying, or sleeping, or both simultaneously.

The buzz of the Doctor in her mind was an unorganized swarm, disoriented, and on edge, like a hive suffering from CCD. Cold cut Doctor, newly emerged from the horrors of the Time War, which they thought would last forever…and in a way, it had. Every moment is its own infinity to a Time Lord. Far too thin; perhaps she could fatten him up, like Hansel - her current Doctor was keeping _her_ in a cage, after all. Prod and play with…she thought longingly of her perfectly chiseled stick - but it was simple enough, and much more enjoyable besides, to make another, preferably with the Doctor watching. That used to be a game of theirs, whittling wood - one of the seemingly endless array of primitive Earthling activities that delighted the Doctor. The fun lay in their competitive spirit, to see who could make something quicker; it could be anything, so long as it had a function. Missy had always won on the technicality that, “A pointy stick has numerous functions!” Theta would pretend to protest, Koschei would say, “Oooh, looks as though I’ve made a cross beau!” and the game would invariably conclude with either Koschei or Theta tackling the other, their wooden creations discarded, both victorious.

She was positive her current form had never encountered this current form, and decided to change that. It’s them, after all. They were always present to each other in some form, even when it was merely memories going stiff from overexposure. She fancied them impervious to the devastating effects of timeline alteration.

Suddenly, the Doctor addressed her.

“Are you-”

“Yes,” she replied immediately, surprised and slightly disappointed that they weren’t going to go through the usual dance of pretending not to know one another, but feeling eager enough to talk that she didn’t mind skipping right to-

“-happy?” the Doctor finished.

Missy stopped short. She was used to conversations where the Doctor agonised over relative moralities, trying to decide if they, or she, or he, had ever been “good”, a concept Missy had only historically considered useful for purposes of manipulation, to better understand and predict the motives of others. Morals were one thing. But emotions? No one had sincerely inquired after her emotional state since…well. She couldn’t remember when. The question gave her pause. Was she happy? She…didn’t know. Did it matter? Apparently, it did to the Doctor. Part of her felt uncomplicated joy for that, another part felt delight because it indicated that the Doctor still cared and she therefore still retained a hold on them, taking up their mind and tangles of time that they both treated like a playground - Missy destroying and the Doctor picking up after, but making messes of their own - she felt a hot surge of delicious malevolence, keen in its satisfaction, in the knowledge that she still had this measure of control in their game of push and pull. It was as though they both had specialised pockets of gravity at their cores that attracted only each other, forever orbiting the other in a perpetual dance of destruction and desire. A careful balancing act of nostalgia and knowledge, the latter always threatening to overwhelm the former with carefully constructed arguments of logic and reason. And then there was love, the ultimate guiding factor in determining the Doctor’s decisions. It was love that kept them coming back to each other. Missy knew this, she just didn’t like to confront the fact very often, or examine it too closely. Love was the one source of power within herself that truly terrified her. It was almost entirely tied to the Doctor and felt beyond her control. The Doctor was just unpredictable enough to be exciting, but they both took advantage of the fact that they loved each other. She’d heard a human say that one shouldn’t hate, because no one’s enemies deserve that much of their attention. They were each other’s best enemies. Best friends. Lovers. The last, the most painful. But they would continue paying each other far too much attention, humouring each other in their schemes, providing the only source of respect they could always count on. They estimated each other perfectly; everyone else misunderstood the extent and limitations of their power. The things they truly longed for.

She blinked and realised she’d been quiet for some time, and the Doctor was patiently watching her, waiting for a response. She decided to evade the question, at least initially; she never was one to make things easy for the Doctor, after all.

“Are you?”

“No,” they answered readily, simply, without pride or any outward expression of emotion, though Missy felt the waves of anguish and shame radiating from them and she swallowed, her hearts constricting painfully.

“I - don’t think I’ve ever been entirely happy.”

“Well, no one ever is.”

Missy was privately surprised by this. She had always thought that certain species, particularly more primitive ones, experienced emotions purely, without the burden of complicated circumstances and stakes. She had assumed that to be one of the reasons the Doctor was so inclined to spend time with humans.

“I like your body,” Missy said, changing the subject.

The Doctor took the abrupt shift in the conversation unconcernedly, replying, “Thanks. I’m still wearing it in. It’s my ninth.”

A human song burst annoyingly in her mind - love potion number nine - and she imagined for an indulgent moment administering some kind of love potion to the Doctor - but there was no need; they were self-administering something even better - effectively a truth serum. Or at least a looser, more-open-to-conversations serum.

“Would you care to dance?” Missy asked, knowing what the answer would be; the Doctor wasn’t a fan of dense crowds, they thought of dancing as a private activity, a ritual that lost its intimacy when performed around others-

“Sure, why not.”

Missy blinked. Well then. Maybe this self of theirs felt differently. Or perhaps those were her preferences, not the Doctor’s. She still had a difficult time believing that they didn’t want the same things.

The Doctor got off their stool and stumbled, and Missy moved in quickly to steady them.

“Thanks. Shall we?” The Doctor offered a crooked elbow for Missy to link her arm through, which she did, eager to try and crack the code of this incarnation who kept disrupting her expectations.

They moved onto the dance floor, an unnecessary abundance of coloured lights shining in every direction.

“I think we start over here, and try and make our way to the other side!” The Doctor said loudly, so as to be heard over the din.

Missy nodded.

The dance floor was punctuated by anti-grav pockets, the gravity in each fine-tuned to a gradient that was lower upon entrance, and returned to the specific preference of the dancers - or an average between them if their preferences differed - after a set amount of time had elapsed. The anti-grav pockets were not indicated by any signals, so dancers never knew when they might suddenly start to float off the floor. This, along with the jostling, blinding lights, and deafening sounds, increased Missy’s irritation and uneasiness, and she tightened her hold on the Doctor as they turned to face her. Together, they began to dance, the Doctor putting on hand on her waist and the other on her hand not weighed down by the vortex manipulator. She spun, twirling her heavy skirts with as much force as she could muster, encouraging those in immediate proximity to give them a wider berth. Missy could feel the Doctor's fingers resting on her open wrist, which felt strangely vulnerable. Suddenly they were moving up off the floor as they entered one of the pockets. The sounds around them diminished to a dull roar, traveling in all directions as the mass of people gyrated at different frequencies. 

Missy was concentrating all her energy into sensing the Doctor, into probing their mind. The effects of the alcohol had already waned (Time Lord metabolism) and the Doctor’s mental shields had reverted to being tightly locked. Suddenly, she found the memories and impressions and emotions at the surface slotting neatly into her mind, a seamless transfer - the Doctor was willingly sharing them, with her, and her alone.

The first thing to reach her senses was the familiar rhythm of four, and she instinctively balked at the magnified sensation but then the Doctor gently shook her wrist and she realized - it was her own heartbeats she was feeling, in their mind. She took a centering breath, and delved further into the knotted core of their mindscape. The Doctor was living in memories of the Time War, so recently ended; _my actions to end it, actions, screams!!!!!_ Missy pressed her forehead against theirs, smoothed her thoughts into their mind, attempting to dissipate some of the pollutions of their stream, knowing that unrelated nonsense would be ineffective, and tried to bring them back to their childhood - _actions are enacted by actors…folly…silly…falling in love…_ some of the Doctor’s anguish retreated and Missy felt their thoughts clear slightly. She released the breath she’d been holding and the Doctor moved their hand on her waist to her other wrist, lifting both hands and kissing them. A tear slid down her face - she was still deep in the Doctor’s mind and focusing intently, picking out all the happier memories, like a miner sifting through with conviction that she had a right to happiness, if only temporary; _years were ammunition \- years, dear Doctor, fears now conquered, tears now Doctor…release, release…_gradually she became aware of a pulsing energy, emanating the space around them…she opened her eyes.

Their surroundings had been transformed - the many coloured lights were gentle now instead of garish, music still played, but softly, and the crowd had gone. The pulsing energy coalesced in their mindscape, the TARDIS humming a soothing rhythm of welcome, and the Doctor’s thoughts turned to joy and hope at last. Opening their eyes as well, they blinked and looked around in dazed wonder.

_ How did we end up here? _

Four heartbeats later, Missy realised the answer.

_ You activated my vortex manipulator. We’re back on your TARDIS - more precisely, the TARDIS of a future you.  _

_ fragments of fragile hope flitting across their mindscape, joining and falling apart, and joining again _

_ How…many lifetimes…? _

_ Twelve_

_ three minds holding each other in between each space each breathe each rhythm of four three times the power, all intimately familiar with change, pulsing, ripping, ticking, destruction, denouncement, defying expectation, gravity for sale, for folly, jolly, fun, babies, all the children, all the life, so new, so old, waste, potential, energy, measure in one, two, three, now, jump, unknown variables, married to you all my lives, lies I told myself, what do I believe? _

_ Do I die? _

_I don’t know, dear_ , _and it was unclear whose thoughts were whose now, all of them woven together in their joined mindscape._

_ Yes you do_

_ Nothing is certain_

_ a sigh, a last release from control of the moment, an acceptance of the present _

**_ Yes _ **

_The thought reverberated, the force of their unity climaxing them back into th_eir own minds.


End file.
